


Fever Dreams

by Anonymous_Kumquat



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Existentialism, Multi, One Shot Collection, Reader-Insert, Surreal, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 20:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20198065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Kumquat/pseuds/Anonymous_Kumquat
Summary: (Yandere!Black Butler x Reader one-shots) A one-shot collection of Black Butler characters with a dream-like, surrealistic spin.





	Fever Dreams

Where were you before?

What were you doing before this moment?

You can't seem to recall.

All you know is that you're in pain. 

Red, hot pain.

It’s so unlike the warm and serene blue in which you float. 

Or rather, in which you _did _float.

  
Because no matter how much you have worked for the cultivation of the serene cobalt color in which you clothe your being, it is simply impossible to prepare for an occurrence as shocking as being lacerated. 

And understandably, you slip into a searing red panic. 

Red it is, and there is so much red, that to rest your eyes on the despicable scene would be enough to satiate any desire to see scarlet again for an entire lifetime.

Though, it seems you are reaching the end of yours.

In a jolting shock, you sickly spew forth more of the dreaded color onto the grass. 

The moon bathes the grassy expanse in a pale blue. How tragic indeed to suffocate, to drown in red somewhere so serene, so blue. 

“You look so much better when you’re not in that drab blue.”

The red seeps through your clothing, staining it permanently in its passion. 

Weakly and in dramatically slow motion, you careen backward, hitting the ground softly. 

Much to your chagrin, red is indeed becoming your undoing, for you are struggling to breathe with the red pooling in your lungs. You can only manage to make pained spluttering noises, and lamentably, you begin to drown in the thick, suffocating hue.

“Red looks so much better on you, dear. I don’t know why you ever wore such a dreadful color before.”

A wide, toothy, and disconcerting grin forms on Grell’s face as they kneel by your dying form.

“I used to not be able to tolerate you, and I still don’t know how I do it to this day. You’re such a boring person.” 

They sigh and lean back in the blue grass. 

“Why did someone as attractive and exciting as myself fall for someone as bland and uninteresting as you?”

There is silence, and then, tragically, you asphyxiate. Your life comes to an anticlimactic end, as life often ends at awkward and unfitting intervals. Death does not care, and you, no matter how wonderful you may be, are no exception.

Records burst forth from your chest reeling towards the sky. 

At first there are scenes infancy in which you have little consciousness of anything.

And then there is the childhood in which you develop budding self-awareness. 

Then the record is a vivid red, which Grell treasures so much, colored violently over a deep blue melancholy that bleeds through despite the efforts taken to hide it. 

But as the reel slides by, the color grows weaker and weaker, until it has faded to a garish gray that solemnly hangs on the slides. 

And that is when blue buds through the cover of gray, bursting into the rich color that you so loved. 

Having been completed, the slides disappear into the night sky, and a dead silence fills the air instead.

“You used to be such a beautiful red! Why did you have to change?”

Grell impolitely prods your blood-soaked corpse. 

“Oh, well, it returned in a full circle anyway.”

Dipping their fingers into your blood, they paint your lips with the crimson color. 

“You should be grateful that I preserved you in such a beautiful state, though you will only ever be seen by my eyes,” they say, standing. 

And then they turn to walk away, none the wiser. 

But try not to be mad that you are dead, dear, as it does no one any good.

Although the reaper is the only one who parts from this encounter alive, is it truly living? 

Tell me: does a life of escapism, a life of fleeing from what it means to be alive, a life where you merely exist, do they sound like being alive?

For what is left in the cracks of time between seeking transient thrills? 

Perhaps it's the uncomfortable silence in which we are forced to acknowledge the fleeting nature of the excitement and thrill that people so often crave. 

Perhaps it's the rest in which what we are fleeing from catches up to us. 

Perhaps it's the dread of seeing the same familiar problem or discomfort staring back at us right where we left it. 

And between you and the redhead who leaps from flame to flame, from thrill to thrill, from one thing to the next, are they really any more living simply because they are alive?

Self-confrontation is hard, and rightly so.

But how much worse is it to live forever unaware, living life as though a dream?

But, alas, you are dead, and I don't wish to trouble you with such concerns.

Rest peacefully, dear, for the reaper cannot. 


End file.
